


Goldfish

by Syrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes, POV Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 15:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Greg has long since come to terms with his somewhat inappropriate crush on Mycroft.It's one-sided, of course, but as long as no one else finds out then that isn't going to be an issue.Which, of course, means that Sherlock notices.





	Goldfish

“Your continued assistance is, of course, very much appreciated.” It was likely the closest thing to a ‘thank you’ Greg was likely to ever receive from Mycroft Holmes, stomach fluttering as he grinned at the praise.

_ Really, Greg? One tiny bit of almost-praise and you’re practically wagging your tail at the man, get a goddamn grip for fucks sake! _

“Yeah, no worries. Sherlock’s a mate, you know? He might be an insufferable prick at times, but I’ve got his back.” He paused for a moment, cringing as the words spilled out before he could stop them.  _ Insulting Mycroft’s brother to his face? Smooth, Greg. Very smooth _ . “No offence.”

“None taken.” Mycroft assured, clearly amused at Greg’s self-inflicted mortification. “However it appears that my time here is up. Until the next time, Detective Inspector.” Turning on his heel, Mycroft stalked back to the awaiting black car, tip of his umbrella clicking rhythmically against the tarmac as he went, an unrequired and ineffective stand in for a walking stick. Greg watched him for longer than he should have, dragging his gaze over the retreating form until Mycroft slid into the back of his car and vanished from sight.

_ What was the saying; hate to see you go, love to watch you leave? _ While Greg could admit to himself that yes, he did have a thing for men in suits - a carry-over from his youth in all likelihood, his rebellion against authority very much a front for his need to be put in his place  _ by _ said authority, preferably while face down in soft sheets - he was fairly certain Mycroft would look no less desirable in any outfit he chose to wear.

Greg desperately wanted to see him in pyjamas.

Turning, needing to get back to the crime scene and ensure that Sherlock hadn’t managed to insult anyone to the point of tears yet, he found that he was face to face with the consulting detective himself.

“Sherlock!” Greg stumbled back a step, his voice a good octave higher than he would have liked. “Bloody hell, don’t  _ do _ that - I nearly had a heart attack!” Sherlock didn’t seem to be listening, staring intently at Greg’s face as though he was trying to figure something out. No, not quite that; as though he had figured something out already, but wasn’t quite ready to believe it yet.

“Elevated rate of breathing, pupils dilated, flushed. Lips moist - you’ve been licking them. Posture closed off, guarded. You’re - afraid? Your expression gives you away, but you don’t want me to know, don’t want anyone to know - why?” The slight tilt of his head made his curls shift, and the motion along with the intensity of his stare reminded Greg in that moment of a dog.

A hound. Listening.  _ Hunting. _

“Please, mate. Don’t.” It was too much to hope that Sherlock might back off, might leave it, but it was an inescapable habit to try. Before he could put it to words, before he could speak the truth that Greg had wanted to remain silent and secret and unknown until it passed into obscurity.

Greg rarely got what he wanted.

“You have-” He paused, flicking his attention over Greg once more before seemingly assuring himself that he was correct. “ _ Feelings _ . For my brother.”

“It’s not important, so just-” Greg wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Or swallow Sherlock whole, he would have been happy with either at that moment. “Leave it. Forget about it.”

“I’m well aware it’s not  _ important _ .” Sherlock scoffed, looking somewhat put-out that Greg had dared state the obvious. “But I need to know  _ why _ . Why don’t you want anyone to know, what are you so afraid of?”

“Are you really that dense?” With a sigh, Greg pushed his right hand through his hair, frown tugging at his lips. “I know that genius brain of yours doesn’t work the same as the rest of us sheep, but surely you know how people think well enough by now.”

“Goldfish.” The surprise on Greg’s face must have been obvious, because Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“Not sheep; Mycroft considers ordinary people to be goldfish.”  _ Wonderful _ . Less than sheep, then - no wonder the man was rarely seen interacting with others, if he thought so little of them. Of Greg. But then, what had he expected, really? He knew he wasn’t bad looking as such - yes, he was getting on a bit in years, but he hadn’t been bad looking in his youth and had aged well. But what importance were looks to one of the most intelligent men to have ever lived? 

“You know you’re not helping?” He  _ ached _ . Knowing that he stood little chance of reciprocated feelings was one thing, being outright  _ told _ it, however, was nothing less than a punch to the gut.

“I’m not trying to. What I  _ am _ trying to do is understand. You’re...ashamed, because Mycroft is a man? No, you’ve been open about your sexuality for years. Because it’s Mycroft? More likely. Not because of his appearance or-” Sherlock stopped, eyes widening fractionally. “Oh.”

“Go on then, mate. What’ve you  _ deduced _ about me? Drive the knife in deeper.” For the first time since their conversation had started - hell, possibly since he’d first met the man - Sherlock seemed reluctant. Guilty, almost, if he knew what that emotion felt like.

“It’s because he’s unattainable. You’re afraid they would treat you differently. The people you work with, you think they would pity you, after what happened with your ex-wife and now this. You know you can’t have what you want, but you’re afraid you’ll lose what little you have if my brother were to find out.” It was remarkably astute of him really, and Greg might have been impressed if the emotion didn’t taste quite so bitter.

“Bingo, nail on the head.” Greg laughed softly and it wasn’t a happy sound, more interested in Sherlock’s shoes than his face. “Surprisingly accurate for you, where emotions are concerned. But,” he shrugged, the gesture carrying with it a measure of defeat, “now you know.” They stood in silence for a moment, and with a surge of bitter amusement Greg realised that Sherlock simply didn’t know what to say. 

“I don’t pity you.” Was the eventual reply, quieter than before, and Greg was fairly certain Sherlock had never aimed that particular tone at him before. At John certainly, Molly as well, and once or twice Mrs Hudson - but never him.

“Liar.” 

“Well alright, maybe I do a bit.” Sherlock was still watching him intently, and Greg felt like little more than a laboratory specimen under his piercing gaze. “He won’t hear it from me.”

“Sorry?” Greg’s face twisted into a look of surprised confusion, and when he looked up he was surprised to see a detached almost  _ sympathy _ colouring the man’s face.

“I can’t even begin to fathom why you might find Mycroft attractive - I’m fairly certain you must’ve hit your head or something, and frankly I don’t care if he knows or not. But I’m not some gossiping teenager.”

“Never said you were.” Greg snorted, the ache in his stomach settling somewhat, though he could not help but remain wary - this was Sherlock, after all. “He’ll figure it out himself anyway if I’m that obvious.”

“Doubtful.”

“I thought he was meant to be the smart one?”

“He does like to let people believe that, doesn’t he?” Sherlock sniffed, and while it wasn’t an outright denial, it was abundantly clear he wasn’t happy about it. “No, he won’t think to look for it, and therefore won’t see it. Your secret is safe, Graham.”

“Greg.”

“Whatever.” Spinning on his heel, Sherlock stalked back over to where John was waiting for him, the doctor throwing Greg a questioning look before he was dragged off. With a sigh, Greg shoved both hands in his pockets and stalked back to the crime scene. His team were winding down, their jobs done, but it wouldn’t hurt to have one final look around.

It might help to clear his head, anyway. 


End file.
